


Birthday Suit

by flamiekitten



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Presents, Cumbersmaug, Fluff, Interspecies Relationships, M/M, Stroppy Dragons, smaugbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamiekitten/pseuds/flamiekitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Bilbo Baggins' birthday and half of Hobbiton have come to Bag End to help him celebrate. However, their resident dragon isn't too pleased about all of these nosy little creatures invading his personal space, and it's not before long that Smaug starts purposefully making things difficult for Bilbo...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Suit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morfiantra](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=morfiantra).



> A short birthday present for my darling [Mary](http://morfiantra.tumblr.com).
> 
> Un-Beta'd fluff. :)

Smaug did not like birthdays. 

As far as he saw it, there was barely anything likeable about them at all.

He sat curled up on Bilbo’s favourite armchair (he was far too big for it, his legs were forced to dangle over the arm) in a gigantic, scruffy dressing gown, and watched with narrowed eyes as what seemed like half the Shire scurried about through Bag End. He knew what they were doing – it was one of those silly Hobbit traditions. Scouring the nooks and crannies of their comfortable little home for valuables and baubles that they could claim to be ‘mathom’ and take away as their present for attending the party. Smaug snorted; he found the concept ridiculous, and utterly backwards to boot. If he had his way, the one celebrating their birthday should be the one _receiving_ the gifts, not giving them away.

“ _Hobbits_ ,” he said with a puff of smoke and a tiny flicker of flame, causing those in the room to squeak and scurry away towards a different part of Bag End, flapping and tittering as they went. The Shirefolk had begrudgingly become used to the dragon as a permanent resident of their world, but they very much still tried to pretend that he didn’t exist. His very presence upset their desires to have everything as boringly normal as possible, after all – an illusion he liked to shatter at every opportunity. “Scroungers,” he sniffed, trying to twist his over-long body into a more comfortable position in the tiny chair. 

The hurried slap of approaching footsteps pricked his ears, and he lifted his head to see Bilbo coming down the corridor. Smaug started to smile, but the look on the Hobbit’s face soon wiped it off again. Despite being over six foot tall, with Bilbo just over four, the dragon positively cowered in place as his mate stood over him, hands on hips with a most displeased frown on his face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bilbo asked.

“Sitting down,” Smaug replied almost meekly – and if his ears had retained the ability to move when he was in this form they would very much be flat against his skull right now.

“You bloody well know that’s not what I’m talking about,” the Hobbit said, now folding his arms tight across his chest and tapping one of his large feet against the polished wood floor. “You’re scaring the guests, Smaug.”

The dragon released the most dramatic groan before sliding partly off of the chair so that he was hanging upside-down, back on the ground and tail hanging down and dressing gown flopping about and legs propped up against the chair as he looked up at Bilbo with something resembling a pout.

“You can’t honestly say you _like_ them being here? I thought we preferred our privacy.”

“I _do_ prefer privacy, Smaug, you know I do, but birthdays have to be the exception. We have to try and be a least a _little_ bit normal.”

“But _why_?”

At this, Bilbo put his foot down – literally, right next to Smaug’s head. The Hobbit leaned down, so that his face was just inches away from the dragon’s, and glared at him. 

“ _Because_ , you great, big oversized lizard,” he said, without any trace of endearment, “if they decide that they don’t want you here anymore, then they would be well within their rights to kick you out.” He paused, face softening just the slightest. “Which means _I_ would have to leave as well.” Hardening again. “So think about _that_ the next time you want to throw a strop – _on my birthday_.”

Bilbo walked – no, marched – away then, his arms hard lines at his sides. Smaug slowly rolled over onto his front and knelt up, watching him leave while curling his tail in and out like an agitated cat. He huffed out another smoke ring, trying to tell himself that he didn’t care, that he’d just go sprawl out on the bed in the only room that the guests couldn’t enter, that he’d just stay there until this whole, rotten day was over and done with and he’d have his Bilbo back and all to himself. 

But, of course, he _did_ care, and he also knew that just waiting for Bilbo to come and find him again wouldn’t stop the Hobbit from being angry at him. The day would be over, but the dragon would still be in trouble with his mate.

With a soft sigh, Smaug gracefully pushed up onto his feet and headed towards their bedroom. It was blissfully devoid of nosy party guests, just as it should be, but unfortunately Smaug wasn’t staying in there for long. He shucked off his dressing gown and carelessly toed it towards the corner of the room. The dragon rolled his shoulders and extended his wings, stretching out fully for what would be the final time tonight and making a satisfied little sound as his joints clicked and then relaxed. Folding them against his back again, Smaug then got dressed in the specially tailored suit Bilbo had bought him for the occasion. Getting the tailor to make it in the dragon’s size, as well as adding the special slits in the back of the waistcoat (there was no jacket, as Smaug could only take so much restraint) for his wings and the hole in the trousers for his tail, had been a difficult and costly task on the Hobbit’s part. 

And then, to top it all off, Smaug had ended up refusing to wear it anyway in a fit of pique.

Now, as he admired himself in the mirror, he found himself questioning why in the world he’d done a silly thing like that. The outfit was exquisitely made, forming perfectly to his shape and made out of soft, fine materials – black shirt and trousers, and a waistcoat made out of red silk brocade that made more than just a passing resemblance to his dark, blood-red scales when in full form. It still made his skin crawl to be wearing clothing, but Smaug knew this was important to Bilbo and so he fought down the nausea and headed towards the back garden, where the main festivities were happening.

As he walked down the corridors he passed several Hobbits, who all gasped and pressed to the rounded walls, watching with wide eyes as he went by. Smaug kept his head held high (well, relatively speaking – the ceiling was rather low, after all) and didn’t pay them any attention, walking out the back door and into the garden. It was a warm September afternoon and the air smelt of wildflowers. Live music was playing and there was food and drink available aplenty on the long wooden tables that lined the edges of the large, enclosed space. Hobbits were dancing and singing and laughing and talking together.

That is, until they spotted Smaug standing just outside the door.

There was something of a collective gasp and the conversations petered off into silence, dozens of eyes all fixing on him. Smaug felt strangely self-conscious and was half-tempted to repeat his little fire-breathing trick from earlier, but then his eyes fell on the sight of Bilbo, his Bilbo, standing in the middle of the crowd and staring at him as well.

Only, he was smiling.

Smaug smiled too.

Head _actually_ held high this time, the dragon made his way over to his mate, offering his hand to the Hobbit who took it without hesitation. Bilbo’s cheeks were tinged a bit pink, however, as he realised that everyone was still looking at them, and he loudly cleared his throat.

“Carry on, carry on! There’s still lots of food and drink left – and has everyone picked a gift, yet?”

The reminder of the existence of both food and the potential mathom eased the tension almost immediately, and the gathered Hobbits returned to their jovialities and their conversation, some wandering over to the buffet tables, others back towards Bag End (now that there wasn’t a dragon guarding it, there were more places they could investigate) and the rest remaining where they were, but resuming their conversations and laughter from before. Bilbo and Smaug were left standing together, still hand in hand, in the middle of the garden.

“I knew that would suit you,” Bilbo said with a bit of a shy smile, nodding towards Smaug’s outfit. 

“Naturally. You have impeccable taste, even if it’s unfortunately wasted on clothing,” the dragon replied with a smile of his own, tugging a little at the shirt collar. Bilbo tutted and tugged Smaug down so that he was leaning a bit closer.

“Here,” the Hobbit said, reaching up and undoing the top button of the shirt, “you don’t have to have it buttoned up all the way. No wonder you look like you’re being choked.”

Smaug took in a relieved breath at the feeling of release and purred softly in appreciation, pressing a gentle kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. The Hobbit stiffened, eyes widening a little at this public display of affection, but a quick glance around revealed that nobody had seen.

“Not here,” he whispered. “Later. When everyone’s gone home.”

The dragon’s lips pulled thin with a little frown of displeasure, but then smoothed out again as the music started playing once more. He swished his tail, slowly starting to grin. Bilbo lifted his eyebrows.

“What are you wriggling f– Oh no. _No_. We’re not dancing!”

“Yes we are,” the dragon insisted. “You forced me to wear this. I want to dance.”

Bilbo made a strangled sort of noise, but Smaug was insistent – the music was fast-paced and lively, and his feet (which were still bare, but at least that was “normal”) were tapping on the grass. The Hobbit bit his bottom lip, and then his shoulders slumped with defeat.

“Fine.”

They started dancing – swirling and clapping and jumping about. There was nothing graceful about Hobbit dancing, but Smaug still somehow made it look like an art, his long, graceful limbs co-ordinated and his tail resembling a red, waving banner as he spun on the spot. For a long moment Bilbo was painfully aware that hardly anybody was dancing with them, but it seemed that the sight of a _dragon_ , especially one as famously grumpy as “their” Smaug, was giving it his all finally warmed the Hobbits’ hearts to him a little. The children in particular were ecstatic – their curiosity about their strange resident having never really developed into fear – and their little cries of glee soon had everybody feeling buoyant and joyful.

From there, it only got better. For once, Smaug was on his best behaviour: he engaged in conversation with all those who were brave enough to speak to him, sampled the food without immediately spitting it out again, tried the wine without getting outrageously drunk, and entertained the children with _careful_ displays of fire and smoke. He didn’t snap, he didn’t bite, and he didn’t growl. He told stories (omitting some of the grizzlier details) of his younger years, when he’d travelled all over Middle Earth and started his collection of treasures. He was, for all intents and purposes, a fellow Hobbit in a slightly stranger form.

Bilbo played his part as the patient and smiling birthday host, though more than one of his guests noticed how his smile only reached his eyes and became truly genuine if they happened to fix on Smaug. Several of the nosier Hobbits tittered and nudged each other, but even their gossipy ways couldn’t ruin the suddenly perfect afternoon. Bilbo had never been happier with his dragon.

But it didn’t remain the afternoon forever. Though the celebrations of larger birthdays (such as a young Hobbit’s coming-of-age party) could last well into the early hours of the morning, this particular birthday didn’t feature such an important number, and so once time slipped into early evening, the guests started making their way back home. Many of them were talking about what a surprisingly pleasant time they had had and Bilbo couldn’t help but flush up with pleasure and pride. Even Smaug found himself a little reluctant to see them go (the children in particular had been a delight to entertain) but once he was finally alone with his mate again he let out a sigh of relief and flopped down face-first onto the bed.

“Hey, now. Let’s get you out of those clothes before you get them all crumpled,” Bilbo admonished, but his tone was playful. Smaug’s head immediately lifted off of the bed again and he sprung back to his feet, tiredness immediately gone. “Hm, why am I not surprised?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Smaug replied, voice light and airy as his long, nimble fingers beginning to dance over his waistcoat buttons. But before he could get very far, Bilbo came over and slapped his hands away with a little shake of the head. “Wha –?”

“When I was on my adventure,” Bilbo said softly, reaching up and slowly, carefully undoing the buttons himself. “I was told about different kinds of birthdays. And when I visited Esgaroth, I learned that humans have their own traditions concerning _presents_.”

Smaug slowly began to smile, a gentle purr rumbling in his chest.

“Oh yes?” the dragon prompted.

“Yes,” the Hobbit echoed, “apparently humans _receive_ presents on their birthdays – did you know that?”

“I did not,” Smaug said, his grin getting steadily wider, “but if you ask me it makes _much_ more sense.”

“That’s what I thought. And I also thought that, if I _were_ to receive a present, it would be terribly rude for another person to open it _for_ me.”

Bilbo had undone Smaug’s waistcoat and shirt now, and his small hands were wandering over the dragon’s warm, bare skin. Smaug shivered and groaned softly, deciding quickly that he _very_ much liked this side of Bilbo – this confident, capable, _dragon_ -like facet of his personality. 

It wasn’t long before they ended up back on the bed together, both sets of clothes on the floor – worries about crumpling suddenly forgotten. Mouths and tongues soon joined hands in exploring and kissing and tasting. Bilbo was clearly keen to roam over _every_ last inch of his ‘present’, and for once was leading the way, pinning his mate’s hands above his head as he straddled him, looking down at him with a very mischievous smile on his face.

Smaug decided that perhaps birthdays weren’t so very bad after all.


End file.
